"No Serre, the kingpin slipped.” the farmer responded, sounding hurt, and eyeing Gawain's weapons uneasily.
"May I help? Perhaps if I lift the cart, and you replace the wheel?"
"I would be obliged at that, Serre, if it's no trouble."
"It's no trouble, I assure you.” Gawain smiled, and swung himself gracefully out of the saddle, ignoring the stirrups and jumping down athletically. Entirely for the benefit of the farmer's daughter whose flame-red hair was, to Gawain, the most stunning colour he'd seen.
The cart was laden with sacks of what the young prince assumed was corn or grain, and although he'd hoped to raise it high enough with nothing but a gentle heave and a smile for the lass all the while, it wasn't so easy as that. In the end, he found the only way to lift the axle sufficiently was to get his back under the wagon and heave with all the strength in his legs.
After much grunting and a deal of sweat from both Gawain and the farmer, urged on by the two ladies, the wheel was back in its rightful place.
"Dwarfspit and Elve's Blood that was heavy work Serre!" the farmer ginned, breathing heavily.
"Aye,” Gawain gasped, struggling to stand upright and convinced there would be a crease in his spine for weeks, "But it's done and sound, or it will be once the kingpin is hammered back in."
"My name is Allyn,” the farmer announced, offering his hand. "Thank you, traveller."
"Well met, Allyn,” Gawain replied, reaching out to clasp the man's forearm. "How did you know my name?"
Allyn's smile turned to a frown, and Gawain grinned. "Traveller by nature, Traveller by name.”
"Ah!” Allyn's frown disappeared in an instant. "Well met then, friend Traveller! Will you take a little ale? It's from my own hops and is better than some you'll find in Callodon's inns."
"Aye, thanks, I will."
And so they quenched their thirsts from a small keg hefted by Allyn's daughter. It was good ale, Gawain acknowledged, though it probably tasted the better for the red-headed smile that accompanied it.
"Where's my manners!” Allyn exclaimed suddenly, noticing the way Gawain stole a glance over the rim of his cup as they stood by the repaired wheel. "This is my first-born, Lyssa. And this is my wife, Karin."
"Well met, my ladies.” Gawain smiled, and revelled in one of the smiles he received in return. "Do you travel homeward, or to market?"
"To market," Allyn announced, draining his cup and handing it back to Lyssa. "In the town of Jarn, which lies at the other end of this forest."
"And you, friend Traveller, where are you bound?" Lyssa asked quietly, earning a reproachful glance from her father.
"North,” Gawain said, likewise surrendering his cup, and wishing he could reveal his given name. But it was forbidden. He was not permitted to reveal his identity whilst in the Banishment, nor even to say or possess anything that would declare him to be Raheen. "I've heard Elvendere lies in that direction, and I've a yearning to see the elves with my own eyes."
"Elves!” Allyn exclaimed. "You'll not see them, but you might see their arrows all right, if you set foot in Elvendere! Never was a land so jealously guarded."
"In truth?"
"In truth. I saw dwarves once, at Callodon castle, years ago when his majesty ascended the throne. But no elves came."
"Everyone knows that to set foot in Elvendere is never to return.” Lyssa said, her soft voice rich with concern.
Gawain shrugged. "Well. Perhaps I'll head north-east then, and find a warmer welcome in the Black Hills."
"Dwarves.” Allyn grunted, hammering in the kingpin with his fist. "They're not so bad. Suspicious lot though. And they're not as small as you might think, Traveller."
"No?"
"No. Smaller than most men, but I've seen other humans smaller than dwarves too, during the fair at the castle. These days though, I don't know. Seems people everywhere are becoming elvish. When I was your age, Traveller…"
"Allyn, don't carry on so! Friend Traveller doesn't want to hear all your stories about the castle."
"Yes dear," Allyn sighed to his wife, and winked at Gawain as he turned back to the kingpin.
"Here, let me." Gawain offered, and drew his sword.
It slipped from its scabbard with an ominous and unmistakable swish, and Allyn stepped back a pace. The sword was heavy, and its twin edges glistened wickedly in the morning sunshine. Gawain flipped it deftly so the blade stood erect, and set about hammering the kingpin with the pommel.
Three stout blows and the tapered kingpin that held the wheel to the axle was not only wedged firmly in place, but its uppermost end splayed like a tent-peg too often struck with a mallet.
"That shouldn't break free in a hurry.” Gawain smiled, slipping the blade back into its sheath with practised ease.
"No indeed.” Allyn muttered.
Gwyn snorted once, and Gawain looked up the track, his eyes narrowing.
"What is it, friend Traveller?” Lyssa asked, sidling closer to her mother and father.
Gawain shrugged. "Someone approaches. Far off."
"Well, we'd best be off to market ourselves, if we're to sell our grain.” Allyn announced.
"I'll accompany you, if you have no objection friend Allyn? We go in the same direction, and I would be glad of the company."
Lyssa blushed.
"Aye! I have no objection, friend Traveller, if you're sure we won't slow you down any?"
"I'm sure. I have plenty of time, and I doubt the elves and dwarves will disappear for wont of an hour or two on my journey."
"We'll be off then."
Allyn and his family clambered aboard the wagon, and with a snap of the reins the great workhorse pulled the cart onto the road and into the ruts, and with Gawain riding on Allyn's side of the track they set off northward.
"Here come the someones you spoke of." Allyn said softly as they crested a slight rise a few minutes later. Then the farmer's face turned dark, and he spat.
"Ramoths!"
"Who?” Gawain asked, eyeing the distant party approaching them.
"Vermin, if you ask me. Or any decent folk that're left in Callodon. And the rest of the land, come to that."
"What are Ramoths?” Gawain frowned, desperately trying to recall if his brother Kevyn had mentioned them so many years ago.
"Not what. Who…"
"Hush husband!” Karin protested, nudging him sharply with her elbow, and he fell silent.
But Gawain could see from his expression that the approaching Ramoths, whatever or whoever they might be, would never find a warm welcome at Allyn's farm.
As the group approached, Gwyn's tail swished restlessly, sensing the tension rising in her mount. Lyssa noticed the young man's hands too, as they flitted unconsciously, checking sword, and knife, and arrows. She frowned at the latter, for in spite of the quiver of yard-long shafts that hung, with their goose-feather fletching behind Gawain's right hip, he had no bow.
"Make way!" came a call from ahead.
"…who the Dwarfspit do they think they are…” Gawain heard Allyn mumble angrily.
"Make way for the emissary of Ramoth!" came another shout.
Gawain's right hand rested lightly on the pommel of the heavy shortsword that hung from his left side. To any casual observer, it was a casual pose. A warrior would know different.
As the Ramoths drew nearer their cries of "Make way!" grew more frequent, and intensely more irritating. The road was rutted, and the cart wheels were in the ruts. There was plenty of room for the Ramoths to pass down the left side of the wagon, but still they called out.
Gawain noted their number with a military eye. Six riders on horseback, two at the rear of the procession, two at the flanks, and two, who were doing the shouting, in the vanguard. In the middle, a group of eight men carried a covered sedan chair upon their shoulders, and at the very front of them all, a man (or at least it looked like a man) with a shaven head, dressed in long white robes, carrying a pole at the top of which was a strange symbol in iron.